


Self Serving

by yolkinthejump



Category: Good Omens (TV), Good Omens - Neil Gaiman & Terry Pratchett
Genre: Anal Fingering, Aziraphale Has a Penis (Good Omens), Bottom Crowley (Good Omens), Coming In Pants, Crowley Has a Penis (Good Omens), Established Relationship, Fingerfucking, Google-translated Japanese, Hand Jobs, Ineffable Husbands (Good Omens), M/M, Nantaimori, Prostate Massage, South Downs Cottage (Good Omens), Top Aziraphale (Good Omens), cultural appropriation with aj crowley
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2021-02-03
Updated: 2021-02-03
Packaged: 2021-03-15 07:21:32
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,461
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/29185455
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/yolkinthejump/pseuds/yolkinthejump
Summary: Crowley makes himself a treat.
Relationships: Aziraphale/Crowley (Good Omens)
Comments: 9
Kudos: 60





	Self Serving

Another soft, choked cry, and Crowley takes three shallow breaths, his entire body wracked in minute vibrations with the effort of holding his hips still. As if taken by a current that seeks, _demands_ an outlet his head flows back in a delicate curve; the hollow of his throat shines, bobs as he swallows, clenches his jaw with a flash of teeth. His eyes shut tight. His hair is sweat-matted to his temples, pushed off his forehead. Curling tresses lick at his shoulders like flame.

“ _Shh_ , oh, there you are,” Aziraphale murmurs. “My, you’re doing well.”

Crowley feels like he’s burning, skin decadently warm as Aziraphale runs his palm over his thigh and swipes a thumb back over his cockhead, spreading slick down with a smooth squeeze. His cock stands slender and elegant as the rest of him and twitching much the same, flushed dark in the circle of Aziraphale’s fist.

“You’re being so _good_ , dear boy; just like that, easy now.” 

Each word Aziraphale utters, each twist of his hand, adds another beautiful fray to Crowley’s edges, threatening to unravel him. But oh, no, not yet. Crowley is at his mercy, by design, and it is a mutual will that keeps him so. 

In Crowley’s current position there is little leverage to be gained: he lies flat on his back, pillow elevating his backside, knees bent loose and open wide in the very picture of lazy, leisurely pleasure. A picture belayed by spiked inhalations, punched-out whimpers. Willowy as he is, the physicality of his desire has no veil, nothing to mask the stretch and strain of his body—Aziraphale watches rapt at the push of ribs, the blades of his hip bones slicing out with every breath. The entire length of him turned to one tense ripple of lean, wiry muscle as he fights to contain himself. 

And he absolutely must contain himself, see—

There’s the sushi to consider. 

Nigiri, maki, a single temaki resting in the furrow of his chest. Salmon and saba and kampachi and uni. Arranged just so. Crowley entirely bare, but for the gold of the band on his finger, and only a few leaves resting between the fish and his skin. 

Aziraphale, on the other hand, is dressed in his customary, out-on-the-town attire of neatly pressed trousers and shined shoes, tie and waistcoat. The chain of his pocket watch shines in the low light of their single evening lamp. His shirtsleeves are rolled up, less for cleanliness—though that is a factor—and more because he knows the spark his forearms light in Crowley. When the dear can keep his eyes open, anyway. 

“Easy,” Aziraphale repeats, soothing, as he watches blissful tears trail well-worn tracks. 

He’d come home after a productive day of book-acquisition to find Crowley in the front room, laid out on a chabudai they hadn’t had that morning. The stretch of him against the rich honey of the cloth he rested upon sung like a siren, left Aziraphale wonderstruck, shaky and reverent. 

“M’not _ss_ s’posed to talk,” Crowley had whispered, popping a clump of wasabi into his mouth like a hard candy and grinning impishly. In an instant Aziraphale had fallen to his knees on one of the pillows scattered around for seating, Crowley stuttering out “y—you just enjoy,” and they began, agonizingly, marvelously, no sounds but Crowley’s occasional hitched breath and Aziraphale’s own happy murmurs as he savored the treats. This kept on until Aziraphale had eaten all that had rested above Crowley’s sex, so alluring in repose; once _that_ treat had been uncovered, well. One has limits.

Tradition dictates a paradoxical chasteness to the affair, but the two of them had said to hell with tradition long ago. There’s no good reason Aziraphale can find not to have himself a scrumptious tuck-in _and_ enjoy the platter laid before him. 

Aziraphale’s physical arousal is hazy. His own cock swells and ebbs in turn as he refuses it attention. He means to see to a different bodily desire, just now. A spread for all the senses. 

Shuffling closer, curve of him pressed into the table’s edge, Aziraphake picks up his chopsticks with his free hand—a deep red, with carvings meant to imitate scales, and a snake twining about the end of each (part of a fifth wedding anniversary gift, from Crowley, made of _snakewood_ )—and slows his strokes on Crowley’s cock as he ponders his next choice. 

He selects a piece of sashimi after a weighted moment, dips it delicately in the small bowl of soy sauce held in the cup of Crowley’s abdomen. 

Naturally he must allow himself a moment to savor the piquant taste of the sauce, the contrast with the delicate flavor of the salmon that dances along his palate. 

Quite deliberately, though not at all manufactured in its pleasure, Aziraphale allows a moan to slip free, and as predicted, Crowley twitches in his hand. A fat dollop of precome beads at his tip. 

Aziraphale licks his lips. 

“That is, _mm_ , just,” he starts, swiping fingers over the head of Crowley’s cock with idleness, “just gorgeous, just absolutely…” He trails off, finds himself distracted by the fine swirls of hair on Crowley’s chest, the catch as he traces his chopsticks through, plays the very tips lightly over a nipple. They leave a shine in their wake. He gives a pleased little shimmy.

“ _Banzen_. What a toothsome morsel laid before me.”

Crowley hisses through clenched teeth, quivering. “Angel.”

Oh, his voice sounds wretched. Wrecked, wrung out like he’s just finished running a marathon while sobbing all the way, and he looks much the same: flushed, a dampness at his eyes taken up permanent residence. When Aziraphale catches his gaze, however, the imp _winks_ , and his mouth curves in a most jaunty smile—as always, he is a canvas of contrasts. His chest moves in a calculated steadiness. His elbows rest up by his head, hands palms up, lax in submission. His fingers twitch, clench with the effort it takes to not sink into his own hair, writhe and bend and pull and thrust. 

Will of steel, this one, when he wants to. 

Probably there’s a bit of cheating going on, to keep the sushi from rolling off, but he is altogether doing spectacularly well.

Aziraphale tells him so and Crowley mutters something that trips on his tongue, his hips stuttering— 

“You mustn’t jostle so, dear. I’ll not condone wastefulness,” Aziraphale chides, hand going to hold at his hip, and he has to clear his throat when his voice comes out thready; he straightens his spine and continues, “not when you’ve provided for me so thoroughly. Oh, Crowley, love, such a handsome bounty you make, so lavish and temptsome. There is nothing so beautiful as you.”

The response he receives is a bitten back growl, low in Crowley’s throat.

“You _do_ mean for me to enjoy my feast, don’t you?”

Crowley throbs. Heartbeat held in Aziraphale’s palm. He nods in little, contained jerks. 

An unparalleled benediction, the weight of man in one’s hand. The trust inherent in the act; the scalding, wanton cry of a lover and his need and the answering call to _tend_ , to fulfill that roars in Aziraphale, gluttonous. A body so alike, and yet so varied, from his own. The sheer attractive fit of a cock, head bulbous with desire, flushed dark and shining. Loose, feathery skin over steel. A delicious contradiction. 

And all the better that the nerve belong to the love of one’s life, of course. 

Aziraphale gives into instinct and bends, drops a kiss to the very tip of Crowley’s cock. Inhales the delicious salt and musk of him, licks at the wet that clings to his lips. Perfection. 

There is a murmur of what sounds like “house dressing” from Crowley, startling a snort out of him. 

“Horrible!”

Crowley snickers, broken and hitching and a tinge hysterical. 

“You know, I’m afraid I’ve changed my mind on the talking, thank you.” 

“Nn, no take-backsies.”

“Ugh,” Aziraphale groans, fond, “what a rude thing you are.” 

In a mimicry of a scold, he taps once at the tip of his cock, and watches rapt as Crowley pulses, further slickening. Always a captivating sight. The poor dear is so, so wet already. The strain of it looks near painful. Aziraphale gathers the fresh mess, smears it across the slip of soft skin at the crown, thumbs at his exposed glans.

“Look at you. So sweet for me.”

“Gnn.”

Waste not. Aziraphale brings his hand to his mouth, and sucks his fingers clean until his cheeks hollow. _So that nothing may be lost_. 

Crowley moans, loud and cracking apart. The kind of moan usually reserved for love making; when a more languorous mood has taken them and Aziraphale, after much meandering around the main event, so to speak, finally fills Crowley to the hilt in one long, slow push. It is often a sound signaling the edge of his crisis, also, and as delightful as he is upon release, that won’t do, not with Aziraphale still with so many delicacies remaining on his plate. 

With a _tsk_ , Aziraphale wraps a hand back around Crowley’s cock. A different hold from before. Hand stock-still. There is no need for telling when a steady grip will do. Crowley knows what is being asked of him. Even as the muscles of his thighs quake, involuntary spasms at Aziraphale’s touch, he forces his hips calm. Breathing harsh through his nose, every inch of him eager, impatient, swollen with need, and still he keeps himself in check. Serving Aziraphale’s pleasure is paramount, it seems. 

Aziraphale cannot resist brushing fingers proprietarily into the wiry hair at the base of him, giving a tender squeeze. 

_Good boy_ , he thinks, biting back the praise. Better not. He’s pushed his luck enough. 

And that is how he holds him, hand entirely fixed as he eats every.

Last. 

Piece remaining. 

“Angel. Angel. Angel. Angel.” 

Voice like a skipping record. Eyes open, shining, staring half-lidded at the ceiling, hazy. Aziraphales’s mouth curves in a fondness, an ache so deep for this man, this intimacy they’re afforded, this indulgence even after all these years that feels a wonder still. The opportunity, well fought for, to love one another in such a way. 

Aziraphale picks up the bowl of sauce, takes his time gathering each leaf left, stacking them one by one neatly to the side. He places his chopsticks primly alongside the pile. He pats at his mouth with a handkerchief that vanishes as quickly as it had appeared. 

He watches Crowley’s chest rise and fall. 

The moment his breathing seems to be truly steadying, Aziraphale smooths his free hand along a trembling thigh, squeezes light at his scrotum in passing—and moves to trail teasingly at Crowley’s perineum. 

At the touch of his finger Crowley hisses, brokenly, “You, bas-ye _sss_ ,” and oh, Aziraphale certainly doesn’t need to be told twice. 

The whole of Crowley sighs as Aziraphale gets an arm under his knee, fits him casually, easily, to rest his leg in the crook of his elbow. The very _sound_ of the rusting of his shirt against bare skin is a decadence unmatched, nevermind what a glimpse of the elicit difference of their dress does to the pit of arousal in Aziraphale’s stomach. His own cock is becoming more and more difficult to quell. 

Normally he prefers to go about these things in a more, say, manual fashion, but efficiency is the mood, suddenly, and they’ve dawdled enough. Quick as a blink and he’s sliding two miraculously-greased fingers inside of Crowley. No play, no gradual tease; Aziraphale aims directly for his prostate. Massages at him with small circles, unrelenting. 

“Ah—” starts Crowley, “Aziraph—ah, ah, ah _gn_ ” and he bites his lip, mouth red and spit-slick. Face drawn, pointed chin and sharp cheekbones sharper still as he jerks his head back and keens.

Aziraphale looks between them, breath stuttering at the sight of Crowley speared open on his thick fingers, the glistening flutter of his rim. 

No sounds but the blue symphony of quiet moans and grunts and the filthy wet of his hands on Crowley as he resumes the movement on his cock, positively soaked, now, engorged a stunning near-purple, he sits so close to the precipice. 

Thumb at the thick vein along the side of him and Crowley’s keens turn constant, demanding breaths dragged from the depths of his rattling chest. 

“Go on, then. Let me hear you,” Aziraphale grits out, twisting his hand round him, picking up the pace, wedding ring gliding exquisitely against the velvet flesh. Fingers at the core of him giving no quarter. Short thrusts and firm rubs a constant pressure. 

He bends again to Crowley’s cock, seals his lips just over the head. 

Crowley gasps like a drain stop pulled, eyes wide, finding Aziraphale’s gaze and holding, wild, white of his sclera blown away. Aziraphale hums an eager go ahead around him and Crowley’s whole body seems to seize, no tighter a clench than where he bears down on the fingers crooked inside of him. Aziraphale presses closer, deeper, twists at the length of him, opens to him further and laps at the pooling prize at his slit.

Cries become high and sweet as Crowley crests, oh, _at last_ , sobbing with the relief of it, and Aziraphale catches the initial flood in his mouth feeling much as one would receiving the finest, holiest of communions. 

There is nothing so lovely as Crowley at orgasm. Aziraphale pulls back as his toes curl and his feet kick out and his shoulders leave the mat, and he works him through his spending with his hands as Crowley moves to grip at his hair, bowing into himself, language lost to the tangle of his tongue. 

Aziraphale leans into his touch, savors the sting of nails against his scalp. 

“You,” Aziraphale says, emotion clouding his voice, “oh, my, I shall never tire of this, of-of the blessings you bestow. Such, absolutely,” he pauses to exhale, thrusting his fingers hard, wrenching a sharp cry from Crowley’s lips, “exemplary. Ever full of surprises, spoiling me so. That you see to make yourself a treat for me when I would sing thanks every day if only to be given leave to _look_ upon you. Knobby knees and razor hips and solid, flat strength of a chest which holds the kindest heart I—I, I’ve known. The h- _hard_ line of you, your-your cockstand, my _Lord_ —oh, dear husband. Come for me.”

Crowley’s hips lose all rhythm, cock jerking as he stripes his stomach, his chest, the very tip of his chin, with seed.

“Ngfg, ah, s-ssoso, _s_ so…”

“Yes. Yes.”

“ _‘Phale_.”

Aziraphale’s laugh is as a light twinkling of bells. “Hush, sweetheart. Breathe.”

“I love you,” Crowley says in a gasp. Quiet, like it is the only language he knows.

“There’s a good lad.” 

Pulse after pulse out of him, and Aziraphale pumps his hand in tune, using every drop to further smooth the way. He presses deep inside of him and holds, milks his prostate and pets at his slowly softening cock until he whines from it, fingers spasming in Aziraphale’s curls. 

Amidst nonsense coos and murmured praise Aziraphale manages to wring all he can out of him, merciless in his drive. It is only when Crowley’s squirming turns towards the line of overstimulation that is grating rather than gratifying that Aziraphale removes his fingers. A final, feeble drop of spill drizzles past Aziraphale’s knuckles. Crowley’s hands drop to his sides. 

Aziraphale brushes at Crowley’s still shaking abdomen. Gives him a pat.

Crowley whimpers.

“Mm. Well done, you.” He lowers Crowley’s leg to the mat with a kiss dropped to the side of his knee. 

Oh, but he looks a mess, all of him shining, sweat-drenched and streaked with spend and face glittering with drying tears. Face and chest both red, splotchy, a near match in color to the nest they’ve made of his hair. 

There’s a soft “Mmph” and a satisfying crack as Crowley lifts his arms high behind his head, bends and pops his wrists in one long, leisurely stretch. His trim waist narrows impossibly further. Aziraphale could count his ribs.

With Crowley seen to, Aziraphale’s own arousal knocks loud with a coiled fist in his gut. 

Wriggling back down to recline, Crowley looks at him. An eyebrow raised sleepily, beatific rosy smile rounding out his cheeks. Utterly _debauched_. 

The release in the air is heavy. Pure, torturous ambrosia. 

Aziraphale moves his hand to his mouth, licks up the wet smeared on his palm. 

“ _S_ o how’d’o? How’ss it?” Crowley slurs, nudging a toe at Aziraphale’s lap. Not quite reaching the stiff line of his cock that stands now more than apparent through his trousers. 

He pulls off his fingers with a pop, and groans softly. “ _Kushi ni au_. Scrummy. As always.”

Crowley hisses. Just a peek of a forked tongue sneaks outside his cheshire grin. His eyes are hooded, yellow, expression lax with release— 

There is absolutely nothing to signal that Crowley is going to launch himself at Aziraphale. He is not in his lap, and then he is. 

All gangly angles and desperate licking kisses, hands gripping at his bare forearms, the tops of his shoulders, kneading at his neck and his back, the roll of his middle. Crowley touches him so eagerly, yet so glancingly, so _everywhere but where his body begs relief_ that Aziraphale is dizzy from it. 

“Hn, Crow—”

The weight of Crowley, the frantic motion of him, forces Aziraphale back, and he sits heavily—he groans, oh, his poor knees, knelt in the same position for so long—and Crowley’s legs spread wide around his waist. Aziraphale grips at his face, mouth slipping from his lips, moans as he tastes the salt sweet of him, mingling on their chins, the messy delirium. His cock leaks steadily, now. As if allowed acknowledgement his body has decided to skip to the very end to make up for the wait. 

Aziraphale reaches a hand between them, even just to loosen his waistband, anything, anything, but Crowley grabs at his hand with a hiss, “Nnn, no, no, let—” and pushes him away, replaces his hand with his own in the space. 

Instead of taking care of his flies, however, Crowley only places a palm to him through his trousers. The pressure makes Aziraphale want to weep. And it’s not nearly enough.

“Angel—Aziraphale—c’mon.” 

“Cr-Crowley—” Surely he doesn’t mean— 

“Yes, nah, nope, just like this,” Crowley grunts, and oh, he _does_ mean—maddening, he is, and Aziraphale feels himself grow hotter, swell fuller, sweat on his forehead and his chest and under his arms, the slick between his thighs all the more filthy in its trapped state, smearing and ruining him but he cannot care. Not with Crowley’s heated breath at his ear, Crowley’s hand in his hair tugging in tandem with the flex of his hand hitting the ridge of his cock just _so_. 

Control in tatters, he thrusts into Crowley’s grip, a punched out sound catching in his chest.

“Collar up, shoes laced,” Crowley is saying, rambling on, “me spread out not a _s_ titch an’ you in your finery. H _mn_ , this prick of yours _s_ , must _hurt_ you’re so hard, all for me, all becau _s_ e of me, yeah?” 

“ _Crowley_.”

“Fingers in me to the th, third knuckle and not a button undone, come on, finish for me, wan-wanna see what I do to you, you little hedon—” 

Crowley rolls the heel of his palm against him, free hand moving behind, grabbing at Aziraphale’s hands where they cling to his back and interlacing their fingers. 

“C’mon,” he repeats, voice made low with greedy demand, “c’mon, let me ssee,” and Aziraphale yells and bucks his hips up; Crowley locks his ankles behind Aziraphale’s back, rocks with him, thrusts his tongue into his mouth. The heat is stifling, choking out the air around them and making everything tight, fuzzy at the edges. The room narrows to the warm weight of Crowley’s naked sex pressed soft to Aziraphale’s thigh, the clench of his legs and his hand at his cock. 

“Ff _f_ -fiddlest, _f_ f,” Aziraphale bites back a curse, but Crowley only squeezes harder, presses and _grinds_ his palm and Aziraphale groans, pants, “ _fuck_ ,” giving him what he wants.

It seems only fair. 

Triumphant, Crowley laughs. It’s the joyous exclamation that does Aziraphale in, has him messing in his linens like he’s fresh from the Garden. His entire world is the sound of Crowley’s glee. 

Aziraphale freezes as hot pleasure spikes, shakes through him, cock surging. A small sob falls brokenly past his lips, eyes brimming at the _relief_ and the pure, shameless vulgarity as he twitches fitfully against Crowley’s hand, release coating the inside of his thighs. 

Still humming his pleasure, Crowley mouths at Aziraphale’s neck, drops little licks at the sensitive spot behind his earlobe. 

“Love,” Aziraphale says. With effort, he turns, nuzzles against Crowley’s forehead. Clumsy with it, limbs made loose. He tries again: “Love you.” Drained of all else. 

“ _Haa_. And you.”

Turnabout and all that. Aziraphale shudders wetly out an exhale, breathless with it, pulse hammering in his ears, fingers clenching tight against Crowley’s. Crowley, naked in his lap, and him sitting fully clothed with drawers drenched in his own spend. 

A few last pitiful jerks, the remaining drops of orgasm ek out, further sullying pants that, all considered, really should be binned. Even miracled, he’d always know. 

Aziraphale’s face flushes absolutely molten, groaning, cock twitching dry at the thought. 

“Spe _c_ tacular,” murmurs Crowley. He lets go of Aziraphale’s hands with a squeeze and his fingers move to play across Aziraphale’s bare forearms, tickling at the dusting of hair, kneading at the plump of him. 

Aziraphale tamps down the desire to squirm. Come already growing tacky between his legs.

“Crowley,” he croaks. Hoarse. 

“Mh, ‘for you ask: bored. Scrolling delivery, had a thought it’d be a bit of fun to order in. What, can’t I do something _nice_ for my fella if I want, ey?”

As he says the word he bites at Aziraphale’s jaw for old time’s sake, a jest that feels a lifetime ago. 

The purse of Aziraphale’s lips makes way for a smile. “And you, I’m sure, didn’t get anything out of it at all.”

“Selfless, me.”

“Hm.”

The curve of a grin against his cheek has Aziraphale turning to him. A sight of which he will never tire: the wild flare of Crowley’s hair, post-coital look of him a storm, clouded heavy, sated, peace in his golden gaze. The way his eyes crinkle at the corners just before he tips Aziraphale’s chin up for a kiss, a hand coiling to twine in the short hair at the back of his neck. 

Rush abated, they take a moment to breathe. Crowley settles further in his lap, places his free hand round Aziraphale’s belly, tucked under his waistcoat with a casual claim that sets his heart fluttering. 

Aziraphale holds him around his back, hand resting along his shoulder blades. He can just barely feel feathers against the palm of his hand. With his other hand he pets at Crowley’s chest, nails scratching at the dried emission still on his flesh, reveling in the decadence of them both neglecting to wave it away. His fingers trail idly down the line of hair just above where Crowley’s cock is tucked limp between his thighs, and back up, the tactile, soothing rhythm drawing a yawn from deep in his chest. 

The loud growling of Crowley’s stomach cuts through the calm. 

“Cr...” Aziraphale starts, shaking with effort at keeping the incredulity that creeps into his voice at bay. “Uhm. Crowley…”

Crowley sniffs and curls in closer. As if embarrassed, pouting at himself for disturbing their tranquil moment, allowing his own body to dictate the tone. “Mmhm?”

“Have _you_ eaten?”

“Uh.”

Aziraphale waits. Oh, for Heaven’s sake. 

“Too worked up,” Crowley says, after a beat. “Couldn’t.”

“Oh, my—” sighs Aziraphale, dropping a hard kiss to his temple. Always getting so wrapped up in whatever fancy has taken him that he neglects himself. He resolves immediately to rectify this. Like a switch flipped: _Right. My turn_. “Ridiculous creature,” he continues. “Let’s get cleaned up, and I’ll make you something, what do you say? A late dinner, a roaring fire, a reading from one of my newest finds? I unearthed some real treasures today. I know you’re curious.” 

Crowley meets his lips again, a lazy press, savoring it. Squeezes at his middle. “What are you thinking?”

“If we’re to stay on theme, perhaps… Mm. What’s our noodle situation?”

“Stocked.” 

“Udon?”

“Mmh, yeah, I could demolis _s_ h a curry, if you’re of a mind for _s_ pi _c_ e.” 

“You haven’t had enough _spice_ tonight?”

“Har-de-har.”

Aziraphale giggles at his joke. “Curry it is. If that’s what you would like.” 

As Aziraphale summons a miracle of cleanliness to his hands, caressing across Crowley’s chest, shoulders, the sharp line of his jaw, Crowley shivers in his arms. He doesn’t need to touch to work, and refreshes himself while he does Crowley with barely a thought, but he loves the squirm it gets him. Crowley’s hips twitch once, a small noise falling from his mouth. 

“I’ll like anything you make for me,” Crowley whispers hotly. 

“Settle,” Aziraphale chides. Entirely innocent. He drapes a robe of burgundy and royal blue across Crowley’s shoulders. “Plenty of time for seconds later.”

“Counting on it.”

Crowley extricates himself from Aziraphale’s lap, standing with a satisfied groan. He turns to pull Aziraphale up, hand lingering in his, fingers playing at his ring. 

No matter how long they’re together, the domesticity of it all never ceases to leave Aziraphale marveling at the astonishing feat that is the life they’ve built, here. Against all the odds. They have a marriage, and a home, and a life entirely their own, unmarked by Heaven or Hell’s intrusion. He has his books and Crowley has his plants and they both have various other hobbies accumulated throughout the years, undertaking new interests sometimes if only because they can. Surprising each other, because they can. 

With a snap of Crowley’s fingers he holds out Aziraphale’s own robe to him. 

“Thank you kindly,” Aziraphale says, already working on the buttons of his collar.

Sometimes there are surprises—today’s greeting was hardly customary—but there is a constant, comfortable _looking out for one another_ and all that entails that Aziraphale figures is the point of this business. Role-playing at humanity, as Crowley says. Their side. At the end of the day, they have each other. It is perfectly ordinary. And that is the sweetest treat of all. 

**Author's Note:**

> Banzen = 万全 = perfection; flawlessness, ideal, fulfillment, completion, faultlessness  
> Kushi ni au = 口に合う = expression to say food tastes good = literally “fit the mouth”  
> 
> 
> <(￣︶￣)>
> 
> Thank you for reading!


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